Tuesday, February 28, 2017


everybody hates the lonely
don’t let them tell you otherwise
you are having a nice conversation
then you see the desperation in their eyes

all the years of solitude
come rising up like foam
in the flickering beams of your sympathy
they finally see their way home

their dreams and sad opinions
flow through the night and into dawn
their clutching hands reach out to you
but you are already gone

perhaps when you lie dying
in a little room alone
you will give a thought to those desperate ones
and regret your heart of stone


i am sorry i find life ridiculous
and can not share in your joys and sorrows
perhaps after a good night’s sleep
i will feel better tomorrow


how nasty life is!
and how even worse people are!
how i wish i were an anchovy
in a can on the shelf of an abandoned supermarket

or even better
on a pizza half-eaten
and tossed aside in its cardboard box
on a sidewalk in the rain

a million cab drivers weep
dreaming of neanderthal maidens
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches


john was just a guy
and he lived in just a town
on just a planet
that was neither up nor down

john liked jelly doughnuts
and caressed them with his touch
and he also liked cheeseburgers
but not nearly as much

john watched television
all day and all night
his favorite shows were perry mason
and the price is right

his mom lived in the basement
and his dad lived in the attic
they argued about religion
but all john head was static

his brothers all liked batman
but john liked superman
his favorite singer was dolly parton
he was her most committed fan

you may ask what was john’s purpose
and what was his life’s task
and those are good questions
but who are we to ask?

Monday, January 30, 2017


it was dark

i was lost

i was despised

and i had lost my briefcase

when my brother and his stuckup friends showed up i left the hotel room

and went down to the news stand to find the latest best seller

but they didn’t have it in stock

i bought a pack of gum instead

when i left the news stand most of the lights in the city had gone out

there were a few lights n the distance

but i did not think they were the hotel’s

i started walking

i realized i did not have my briefcase

did i leave it at the news stand?

did i leave it at the hotel?

i got loster and loster

i thought of how awful my whole life had been

and how everybody laughed at me and despised me

and barely tolerated my existence

and what a failure i was

it got darker and darker

finally i ended up at a police station

i was told to take a seat on a bench against the wall

when i tried to ask sone questions

the young woman at the desk told me in no uncertain terms to be quiet

finally she summoned me over

tapping on her keyboard she asked wearily

all right, what exactly was in this wonderful briefcase?

Saturday, January 7, 2017

heisenberg and st basil of cappodocia play gin rummy

apprehending the benediction of contraindication
despite the emptiness of flowers
growing happily in the interstices
of jellyfished kineticism

the loose matriculation of narcissism
overflows the percipient quagmire
in the ruins of a snow-covered tower

under the vertiginous wasteland
of the expanding yawning zeitgeist

but the zeitgeist has no amanuensis
as barracudas chomp the debris
of the empire of the forty graves


i hate poetry
but i love slender volumes of verse

i used to tell myself
i was not a voyeur

i didn’t understand porn
or want to look at naked bodies

at flabby boobs
and dicks and asses

or stand in the dark
in the wind and rain

looking through lighted windows
at unsuspecting humans

doing - what?

but naked souls

is a different matter

i admit it now
i am worse

than the sad peeper
seeking a glimpse of ass or boob

everything pales
beside seeing naked souls

i always thought stand up comedians
were the bravest people in the world

nobody could be
more naked

in front of a crowd
with no cover and no excuses

they either “killed”
or “died “

of course i never
had the guts to try it myself

but if you can’t do standup
or performance art

or read poetry out loud
what you can do

is write poetry
in slender volumes

forget zines and anthologies
where the naked ones

can huddle together
and hide behind each other

no, it must be
a lone slender volume

the distillation
of a single naked

and lonely

the fewer words
on a page the better

is more naked

than a book
of bad poetry

except, perhaps
a book of ordinary poetry

Friday, January 6, 2017


i was not worried
about losing the group

even though
my black suitcase

wth my new novel in it
of which i was so proud

was in the group baggage
being taken to the bus

under the curved marble staircase

when the old woman
with the round lined face

leaned over to me
and whispered

“you are quite a character”
and laughed softly

she and another old woman
began talking in french

but so softly
i could not understand them

when i went down the stairs
the bus was gone

but i was not worried

“i knew the area”

wide polished vistas
in gleaming red and orange

and white porcelain tunnels

with a hint of rain
and the cafeterias were closed

i kept going in circles
but was not worried

except a little bit
about the suitcase with my novel

i was never in a dream

which was more obviously
“just a dream”

but when i woke up
i was surprised


i always thought that

i would find


on a dark highway
on a rainy street

in a dimly lit cafe
on a lonely road

on an empty subway car
in milwaukee

a motel room
in las cruces new mexico

standing over a juke box
in manitoba or tokyo

at a bus station
in vladivostok


maybe not love

or peace
or illumination

or divine revelation
but something

something i would only know
when it happened